"There's my boy! Little Frankie Sullivan--all grown up!" Jack's father pulled him up and out of the chair with an all-embracing, iron-arm hug. "That's my boy!" he said, as Jack sank back into the chair, still looking up in shock.
"Tom, Cal--you see my boy? Well, Cal, you've seen my boy and we'll talk about that later, but you see, you see my boy?"
Overcome by his father's entrance, his father's enthusiasm, his father in general, Jack sat for a moment, simply staring before managing a sentence.
"You're supposed to be in jail." His father merely smirked at him before turning it right back around.
"Well you are too, aren't you Frankie-boy? Unless your friend Mistah Roosevelt formally pardoned you, you're still a prison escapee." Again Jack sat with nothing to say in return. "What? You think your old man wasn't gonna look in on you? Check on what you were up to? Seen your face in the papers Francis. I was the only guy in the whole joint with a boy in the papes." His father paused for a moment, waiting for something more.
"How long have you been out?" Jack asked, shifting in his seat.
"A year, two years, something like that. Not important. What's important is father and son, together again, huh, Frankie?"
Still, Jack sat. Staring. Thinking.
"And look at me!" his father laughed,"Look at me all this time, calling you Frankie, calling you Francis, you don't go by that now, do you boy? Don't blame you. Your mother named you. I was against it. What is it you're calling yourself nowadays?"
"Uh…Jack. Jack Kelly."
"Good name!" his father slapped him on the back. "You picked a good name! Not as good as Sullivan, I gotta say, but its alright, you're back now, that can change. Back with the family, you can go back to the name. Be a Sullivan man again. Right! Just so good to see you again." With that, Jack's father pulled him into another embrace and this time Jack felt a little less numb, and a little more a part of something. Which was better than nothing. Jack knew it was definitely better than nothing.
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"You want steak? Potatoes? What do you want?" Jack's dad asked him for the endless time that evening. "Anything you want Fra-er, Jack. Anything you want Jack."
"Steak's good, dad," Jack nodded, "It'll be fine."
"Right. Cal, go see about a couple of steaks." Cal scurried off in the direction of another room and Jack watched him go. "And Tom, why don't you go find us some drinks. You drink Jack? 'Course you drink, you're a Sullivan!" Tom followed after Cal's footsteps, leaving Jack and Mitchell Sullivan alone for the first time in fifteen years.
"They work for you?" Jack asked, watching Tom and Cal scamper after his father's every request.
"And for you too!" Mitch laughed, patting him on the back. "Everything around here--yours too. You're my hair." Jack smirked.
"Heir?"
"Yeah, that's what I meant boy. You're my heir. You're my kin. Its all yours."
Jack surveyed what he could from his chair. It was a nicer room than he'd given credit to before, the furniture matching, the fireplace working, the walls…well they were there, and they looked solid too. Tom and Cal returned together, carrying a meal larger than Jack could ever remember eating.
"Its not bad," Jack said and his father's face lit up.
"Not bad at all, Jack! And all yours! All part of the family business." The two dug into their dinner, Jack done with his questions for the evening. Family and Business. Two things he sure as hell hadn't had five hours before.